Rocalla's Saga: Arrival

3: Castle Island —

1054 Geipharalka 4

Before long, we come to a much wider street across our path, which Dierdra informs me is named Vhëlschajk, which means Bridge Street. Continuing north along the wide boulevard, we are making our way to the beginning of the parade route. People are gathering along the road, in two’s, three’s, and larger groups. Some are just standing and talking; others are following the same path north that we are. Most of them have light brown or blond hair, and blue, gray, or green eyes. A few have reddish blond hair, although I have yet to see anyone with tresses as fiery red as Dierdra’s. All of the city inhabitants are fair-skinned, paler than any group of people I have ever seen before. The tiny spots called freckles, which I have only seen once in my life before arriving here, are quite common.

In just a few minutes we come upon a wide stone bridge, at least six meters from side to side. It arches gently upward with smooth, tight joints between large blocks of carved rock polished by the passage of many feet, its stone walls rising about knee-high on either side. At the near end of the bridge, two town guardsmen stand with long spears, accompanied by a swordswoman. While they attempt to look disinterested, I note that they are looking us over carefully. The men have brown hair, and the woman’s hair is black, making her stand out from the others in the passing crowd. All three have skin that has been well tanned by outdoor exposure, yet even then they are all still far lighter than I am.

The bridge arches fifty meters over a short side channel of the river. Dirty water rushes below, carrying an occasional tree branch along with it. On the far end of the span is a small island, with a tall cathedral on the left and an even larger, but not as lofty, castle occupying its eastern half; the gray stone wall protecting it stretches across the island from its northern shore to its center and then veers to the southeast. The large open area that lies between us and the cathedral is starting to fill with people.

“We’ve a couple of hours before the parade starts,” Dierdra says. “The marchers will pass between those two reviewing stands,” which she indicates with her outstretched hand. “The one on the left is for the church leaders; the one on the right is for the Imperial Governor, his ministers, and guests. We’ll pick a spot on the left, next to the reviewing stands.”

“Do we need to take our place now, or can we walk around a bit?” I ask.

“I’m going to find a place for us now, but you can probably spend an hour looking around if you like. Don’t bother with the castle, they won’t let you in.”

I decide to visit the cathedral. As I walk across the uneven parade grounds, I look at the castle off to my right. Its ten-meter-high walls are constructed of gray stone and topped by a parapet. A squad of six soldiers guards the open gate below the tower that stands close to the southern end of the wall. A second turret rises above the bend in the wall at the center of the island, and a third, more massive tower can be seen ascending above the wall in the distance. Men and women wearing the red, yellow, and light blue colors of the Pyrusian Empire patrol the towers and the ramparts on either side. The morning sun glitters off the tips of their pole arms, while an imperial flag atop the gate tower snaps and flutters in the stiff breeze coming off the sea.

The cathedral is more inviting and inspiring. Crafted of orange-brown stone and rising up in steep arches, it is topped by five tall spires, the largest of which is over the crossing, near the end farthest from the castle. Gargoyles adorn the water spouts, but otherwise the cathedral is plainly decorated. I want to enter, but I hesitate, wondering if I will be harassed or mistreated. Remembering what Dierdra said, I do not know if I will even be able to communicate with anyone inside. After spending a few moments admiring the exterior, I walk up the dozen or so wide steps, take a deep breath, and let myself in through the large oaken doors below the rose window on the east end.

Once the door thuds shut, I am enveloped in silence. Despite the crowds just outside, I see no one inside the church walls. The interior smells of candle wax and dusty age. Walking forward, my footsteps echo in the huge open space.

The cathedral is magnificent. Light pours in through the many stained glass windows, illuminating the intricately carved altar pieces at the far end of the church. A row of five massive columns runs down either side, supporting the vaulted ceiling far above. A dozen candles burn in candlesticks attached to each of the columns, adding their light to the interior of the building. Mounds of wax drippings hang from the candles like stalactites.

I walk up to the crossing in front of the altar and stand there admiring the masterful workmanship. I am so absorbed in my examination of the church that I do not notice the sound of sandals on the stone floor until they are very close by.

A tall thin priest with slightly wavy medium brown hair approaches me, wearing a brown hooded robe. “Have you come to seek God’s forgiveness?” he asks, as I turn to face him. At first I hesitate, not knowing what to say and feeling very conspicuous.

“If I am seeking the Creator’s forgiveness, is it necessary for me to come here to do so?” I ask in return.

“This is sacred ground, where people come to commune with God and pray.”

“Did not the Creator form the whole planet? And if so, is not every scrap of ground sacred?”

“Some here would arrest you and charge you with heresy for making such a claim.”

Turning my eyes to the floor, I begin to wonder if I have made a mistake coming inside. “And you, do you intend to arrest me? Or to forgive me?”

When I look up into his gray eyes, his face breaks into a bright smile, “No, I have no intention of arresting you. Nor will I forgive you, since you haven’t asked for forgiveness. I can tell that you are not a native of Mandelbroggen, and I don’t recall having seen you before. Have you recently arrived?”

“Just last night,” I reply. “My name is Rocalla Rastama.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rastama. I am Father Krohen Dënh.”

“I am pleased to come into your presence. I was just taking a few minutes to admire your cathedral.”

“It is a beautiful structure. Will you be joining us for services?”

“Perhaps I will drop in once or twice to observe, but not on a regular basis. I’m a Zariinyeida priestess, and will be continuing to follow my own practices while I am here.”

“Some will not take kindly to you when they learn that. Expect some ostracism.”

“And you, and the members of your church, how will you treat me?” I ask.

“Some will try to convert you, or encourage you to leave Mandelbroggen. But as long as you don’t attempt to start up a rival church here, they will mostly ignore you.”

“Well, I should be returning to the parade ground now.”

“Enjoy your day,” he says. “And Miss Rastama, don’t be afraid to drop by again and talk. I always enjoy talking to a holy woman, whatever her faith may be.”

“Thank you, Father Krohen,” I reply. “I will take you up on that offer someday.” As I leave the cathedral, I pause for a few minutes to calm my nerves.

Looking out over the grounds, I note that the crowd has grown much larger. People are swarming along the parade route, and isolated groups now wander over the entire island. As soon as I step away from the cathedral stairs, I begin to encounter them. Most people ignore me, moving aside to avoid a collision but never really looking at me. Those that actually observe me let their gaze dwell too long, expressions of curiosity or distaste visible on their faces.

Heading toward the reviewing stands, the crowd gets thicker. As I walk, I observe the clothing of the inhabitants, noting the dyed wool trousers and long-sleeved white shirts worn by the men. The shirts worn here are laced from the center of the chest upward. The women all wear dresses, which vary in length from just above the knee to their ankles. Their sleeves extend to the elbow or the wrist, and all of the dresses are cut modestly around the neck, with only a hint of cleavage visible on even the most exposed chest. I am starting to relax when I cross paths with a man who glares at my forehead, then spits in my face.

“Why did you do that?” I ask as I wipe the sticky wetness from my cheek. He ignores my question and walks on.

Jostled by the crowd, sadness wells up inside of me. I want to leave, to return to the inn, to spend the rest of the day alone in my room. But the only person that I know is here, and she is expecting my return. Unwilling to give up the chance of friendship, I press onward. Feeling very uncomfortable, I push my way through the fetid masses as people glare at me and complain loudly in words that I cannot understand. My vision is blurry with emotion, and it would be impossible to locate Dierdra, were it not for the flaming red hair that sets her apart from the many blondes and brunettes that live here.

Eventually, I manage to reach Dierdra’s side. She has picked a great spot, right up front and close to the reviewing stands, where she is standing while twirling locks of her hair around her fingers. I wipe my cheek again, making sure no trace of saliva remains. Smoothing out the front of my dress, I focus my attention on a tuft of grass at my feet until my eyesight clears. Thankfully, Dierdra appears not to notice how upset I am.

Thirty minutes later, the reviewing stand across from us fills up with civil government officials, and the stand on our side begins filling with church leaders. I recognize Father Krohen Dënh, who sits about halfway down, but I am clueless about the rest until I ask Dierdra.

She starts with the civil officials across from us, pointing out the Imperial Governor, his wife, and selected Pyrusians from the Council of Nine Ministers. I notice that her attention dwells on the distinguished looking men, like the Port Master and the Minister of External Security.

“Who’s that wiry little woman with the furtive look standing amongst the Nine Ministers?” I ask. “With her sandy colored hair and pale complexion, she doesn’t look Pyrusian.”

“She’s not,” Dierdra says. “She’s a native of Mandelbroggen who decided to side with the occupying forces. Her name is Gorla Nen.”

“What is her job?”

“Her title is Minister of Internal Security.”

“Which means what?”

“She is in charge of the town guards. Rumor has it that she has people spying on the locals as well.”

“Nice lady.”

“What is interesting to note,” Dierdra says, “is how Imperial Governor Aureus and Bishop Genhgën Rul each sit up as straight as they can across from each other on these occasions. It is like they compete to see who can sit above the other one.”

“Which one is Bishop Genhgën Rul?” I ask.

“He’s the one approaching the top center, throne-like seat on this side, wearing the four-cornered hat.”

I had noticed that the reviewing stands were equally tall on either side, but had not attached any significance to it. “Is there a lot of tension between the church and the imperial government?” I ask.

“You really are a recent arrival,” Dierdra replies. “The church and the imperial government both want to be the ultimate leader of the townspeople. Church leaders, especially the bishop, resent the very presence of the Pyrusians in our city. The townspeople aren’t very fond of them either. On the other hand, the Imperial Governor hates the way that the people listen to what the church leaders say over what he says. He is particularly annoyed that Bishop Rul won’t sit below him. But he doesn’t insist, for fear of a riot.”

“So what keeps the townspeople in line?”

“A large allotment of town guards, Pyrusian soldiers, and Gorla Nen’s group of spies and informants.”

Soon after that the parade starts. The procession is led by a group of jugglers, followed by a couple of dozen young women dressed all in white. Dierdra refers to them as “maidens of the faith.” They are followed by a large contingent of imperial forces: several hundred crossbowmen, over a thousand swordsmen, and an equally large number of men bearing spears and pole arms.

“There must be serious threats to North Plessia, given the size of the standing army here,” I remark.

“Hardly,” Dierdra says. “The few Rhozzhani tribes to the southwest aren’t much of a danger. The Su Nan tribesmen to the north aren’t even that. The whole purpose of the large army is to intimidate the townspeople and keep us natives in line.”

“This is the second time that you have mentioned the Rhozzhani tribes. I’ve only heard rumors of Rhozzhan. I have never met one. What are they like?”

“I have never met one either, but from what I understand they are filthy animals. People say that they are human-like, but not human. I’ve been told that they are hideous, smelly, primitive, and dangerous.”

“And the Su Nan?”

“They are definitely human. They’re just backwards, unlearned nomads who wander the northern grasslands.”

A host of townspeople make up the rear of the parade, which Dierdra calls “the procession of the faithful.” Most of the people around us step out into the street to follow them. With all of the townsfolk jostling behind us, it is hard to avoid getting sucked into the crowd, but we manage to stay behind until things quiet down and the officials in the reviewing stands depart. Then we slowly walk back into the city.

As we cross the bridge, I thank Dierdra for spending the day with me. “You are willing to spend your time with a stranger, a foreigner, and make me feel welcome. It means a lot to me.”

“It’s no big deal. I enjoy talking to people who can tell me a little about what the world is like outside North Plessia.”

“It’s more than that, Dierdra. I feel comfortable walking and talking with you. Everyone else here treats me like some sort of pariah.”

“You’re not a beast. You’re just an outsider, and outsiders are treated with suspicion here. You seem to be a nice, self-assured woman, and I enjoy spending time with you.”

This time, after we cross the bridge, we follow the street called Vhëlschajk into the heart of the city. The center is dominated by a spacious open square. Here the surrounding buildings are three and four stories tall, as opposed to the one- and two-story dwellings that make up most of the rest of Mandelbroggen. The town hall occupies a significant portion of the south side of the square, and is topped by a watch tower that rises above the surrounding structures.

Merchants hawking spirits and food, dancers, revelers, and drunks all fill the large open space. Wonderful smells of roasting meat and vegetables overwhelm my senses. A man playing a harp nearby can barely be heard over the sounds of the crowd, while a cacophony of sound from the flutes and mandolins of a group playing on the opposite corner drifts through the air. With all the people and noise, it is somewhat surprising that we should meet. Yet as we reach the center of the square and turn east, she appears directly in front of us.

She is exactly as Dierdra has described. About the same height as I am, her light brown hair peeks out from under a hood covering most of her head. Her skin has the same brownish tone as mine, but it is more weathered and worn. The wrinkles radiating from her eyes reveal that she is much older than I, probably forty-five or so. When she sees me, she stops. After a short pause, she reaches up and pulls the hood from her head, revealing the characteristic flower-shaped tattoo of a Zariinyeida priestess on her forehead. “Dhwatheimal laphiic, tuimaphasa labiiraj kiinatyag’wuigiir’. Mariyiybhal Lakorral laphiic,” she says as her face breaks into a smile.

“Dhwatheimal laphiic, tuimaphasa labiiraj kiinatyag’wuigiir’. Buyadh’naldya tiimwa Rocallal Rastamal laphiic,” I reply. I then switch from our native Kopa Teidhwardadya to Gallish so that Dierdra can understand us. “I am pleased to come into your presence. I am the Traveler Rocalla Rastama, and this is my friend Dierdra Laak.”

“I am pleased to come into your presence as well. I am Mariyiybha Lakorra,” she says to Dierdra.

“Finding you here comes as a surprise, although a pleasant one. I was told that I would be the first Traveler to visit Mandelbroggen.”

“My last assignment did not start out in Mandelbroggen, or anywhere near North Plessia,” Mariyiybha says. “I arrived here after a long and torturous journey from the jungles of the far south. It doesn’t surprise me that no one knows that I am here.”

Dierdra, Mariyiybha, and I take a seat together under a large tree. “How long have you been here?” I ask.

“Oh, about fifteen years.”

“And you haven’t returned home in all of that time? Why not?”

“Because I haven’t been able to. The Pyrusian Empire is trying to encourage people to stay here, and has done so by making passage out of Mandelbroggen exorbitantly expensive. I’ve never been able to raise enough money to leave.

“But enough about me,” Mariyiybha continues. “How long have you been here?”

“About a day,” I reply.

“By your age, I would guess that this is your first assignment.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it is late in the afternoon and you and Dierdra should be returning your attention to the festivities. But before you go, I will provide you with some unsolicited advice. If you stand on the sideline, and do not involve yourself, you can do no harm and will not be harmed. Yet if you take this path, you can neither do any good, and will have no effect on the passage of history. You will only be an observer, not a participant. And when you pass away, the sum total of your life will vanish with the morning fog.

“This is my great regret.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Think on it for now, Rocalla. I’m sure that we will talk again later. Dierdra, it has been nice meeting you.” With that, Mariyiybha gets up and leaves.

Dierdra and I partake of the food that the vendors are selling, drink a little wine, and enjoy the evening before returning to The Happy Pilgrim.